


Sweet Desperation

by maschh



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Liverpool F.C., M/M, Old old fic, World Cup 2010, that good good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-30
Packaged: 2018-05-30 01:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6403828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maschh/pseuds/maschh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dan tries to forgive Xabi for leaving during their time in South Africa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet Desperation

Eleven red men stream into the locker room, sweaty and fresh off the field. They're tied with Paraguay at halftime, a tougher game than they would have liked. A few sigh and groan, throw things around a bit louder than necessary, but Xabi Alonso darts to his locker, seemingly unconcerned. ...Alarmingly unconcerned.  
  
“Something wrong, Xabs? That's faster than I saw you move on the pitch,” Sergio cracks, eliciting a few laughs from his teammates.  
  
Xabi's head, buried in his locker and riffling through his things, mumbles something. The guys exchange puzzled looks. Odd that he didn't even take the slow bait.  
  
"You lose something?” Cesc tries sweetly.  
  
“No,” he says irritably, but continues searching with more fervor.  
  
“Remember, we've got that team talk in a few minutes,” Alvaro reminds him and he grunts in acknowledgment. Finally, the others shrug and look away, losing interest and continuing their chatter.  
  
"Ahh,” Xabi sighs softly as he finds what he's been looking for – his phone, buried underneath clothes and (ew) cleats. His heart pounds as he sees there is one new text, but it slows again when he realizes it's from his mom, wishing him good luck today.  
  
Despite himself, he scrolls down and rereads the text that's been bothering him ever since he read it, has stopped him from playing the way he really wants to (needs to). The name looks almost unfamiliar on his screen, it's been so long since they've talked. Or texted. Or laughed. Or kissed. Or done anything worthwhile.  
  
The message itself, though, brings back memories, ones that flood his brain without him being able to stop them. He can imagine Dan saying the words, remembers his voice like no other.  
  
_“I'm at your match. And I've got a huge sign with your face on it so make sure to score a goal for me.”_ He can almost hear the smile. If anyone else had sent him a text like this, he'd – well, no one else would send him a text like this. He also knows for a fact Dan does not have a sign with him on it. He would only say something like that to mess with Xabi's head, a favorite pastime of his. Besides getting him off in bathrooms, Xabi thinks bitterly, and then scolds himself for thinking about it.  
  
After he saw the text, he hadn't been able to concentrate on anything, let alone the game he'd been about to play. What did it mean? Why was Dan there? Did he want him back? (Speaking of, were they ever really together?) Why now? He shakes his head from side to side as if to clear his thoughts.  
  
“Hey, we got to go.” Someone interrupts him. Looking around, he realizes only he and Pepe are left in the locker room. The keeper jerks his head toward the door.  
  
"Oh, right,” Xabi says and quickly replaces the phone.  
  
Hey, what's going on?” Pepe asks as they walk. More concerned than curious, really. He thinks.  
  
“What? Oh, uh, nothing.” Xabi finds himself blushing.  
  
Pepe stares him down. “Xabi—” he says sternly and then it comes to him. “Oh no.”  
  
"What?”  
  
"It's not—Don't tell me—”  
  
“What?” Xabi feigns innocence unsuccessfully.  
  
“It is!”  
  
“Pepe, what?!”  
  
“That's your Dan face!” he hisses.  
  
Xabi bites his lip and puts his head in his hands, which is enough confirmation for anyone (especially Pepe, who knows him so well). The keeper hoots hysterically, terribly pleased with himself. “What happened? Did he call? Have you talked since, uh—”  
  
“ _No_ , we haven't. And he texted cause he's here now,” Xabi says. “I didn't text back.”  
  
“Now?!” Pepe's eyes widen. “Jesus, Xabi. Well, that bastard didn't tell me,” he adds with a chuckle. "He's not angry at you?"  
  
"Didn't sound like it."  
  
"Maybe he's gotten over himself. Be about time," Pepe scoffs.  
  
“He wants me to score a goal for him. And he says – he's lying, but he _says_ he has a sign with me on it.”  
  
“Full of shit,” Pepe nods in agreement as they finally catch up with their crowd of teammates. “Well, what are you gonna do?” he inquires more softly.  
  
“I don't know.” Xabi shrugs helplessly.  
  
At the sound of his voice, Puyol turns around, smiling. “Xabi! You gonna score a goal for us today?” He grips his shoulder affectionately.  
  
Piqu _é_  chimes in, “They say he's on a good run of form.”  
  
Xabi looks away modestly but out of the corner of his eye, notices Pepe giving him a definite look. Luckily, they're called in at that moment for the halftime team talk and Xabi shuffles forward, eager to get away from the secret that already seems to be biting him in the ass.  
  
  
  
He can't even believe it himself when it happens, first the shrill whistle interrupting his teammates bombarding him... and then the second time round when the Paraguayan keeper guesses right and manages to save the ball. In the process, the he also trips Cesc in what was clearly a goalscoring opportunity, but the referee has offered enough penalties for seven or eight games by now and (for once) he's staying silent. It's not real, it can't be. But as Xabi jogs back to play defense, he glances at the scoreboard and – yep. Still _Spain 0, Paraguay 0_. He's not sure how it happened but it did. Who misses a penalty?  
  
When Villa does it, he finally manages what Xabi could not (and makes it look a hell of a lot harder), Xabi runs up to hug him dutifully, feeling relief more than anything else. The game goes by quickly after that. Xabi is on autopilot, his mind elsewhere. Eventually he's subbed off, which is just as well, seeing as he hadn't been _thinking_ on the pitch, which he could've sworn was his job – at Liverpool, Real Madrid, and of course, here. He'd been too busy trying not to scan the stadium. He would thread a few passes and wonder what Dan thought of them. He'd stopped trying risky things in case he made a mistake (a self-conscious teenager once again). He didn't think of much else but Danny, hundreds of meters away, to whom he was just a dot on a pitch.  
  
  
  
He doesn't see Dan after the game, though it's not because he doesn't look. The Dane doesn't meet him anywhere and Xabi's not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. But then, he reminds himself, Dan never promised to do anything with him after the game. And actually, now that he thinks about it, that's just like Dan. Seems solitary, but when you think about it, just a tease.  
  
_Tease._ Fuck. That brings back memories if nothing else does. Fingers lingering on thighs, lips pressed against necks, cocks straining against fabric – fuck. Xabi tosses and turns that night.  
  
But he's awake when his phone vibrates and he fumbles for it sleepily (only because of what's happened today). The sender is predictable. The message is not. “ _You were beautiful. I can't wait to see you in the semis._ ” Xabi frowns, now completely awake. Dan had never called him beautiful before, not that he could remember. It just wasn't a word he threw around. Not even Nick, who Dan had always adored in his odd, inexplicable way, could say he had been called that. Nick was _hot_. Xabi was _sexy_. Sometimes when he was lucky he would be called _lovely_. From hanging around Stevie too much, Xabi guessed. But beautiful – more syllables than Dan had ever bothered to dole out.  
  
He realizes he hasn't responded to either of Dan's texts. But somehow he knows that he doesn't expect a response, doesn't need it. They both know that just Xabi reading it is enough. Just that one sliver of communication, however one-sided, is enough to trigger floods of memories and really, more than anything else, get under Xabi's skin. Dan has always been pretty damn good at that.  
  
  
  
_The truth is, he'd never wanted to impress someone so badly._  
  
_The first time he saw Dan was at training, all long legs and sudden smiles and dramatic tattoos, all that Xabi kind of admired and wanted and feared. He was in awe of the younger man, only twenty-one but so confident and determined that Xabi had to wonder where it all came from._  
  
_It took some Dutch courage and a big win in the FA Cup, 5-3, for Xabi to get past the basics of normal conversation with him. Or maybe the Dane initiated it. He actually doesn't remember. But somehow they got to talking about the game during the celebratory dinner._  
  
_“I still can't believe it,” Dan was saying, shaking his head. Despite having just come to the team, he was injured and had been ruled out of the match. “From – how many yards out? Were you_ trying _to shoot?”_  
  
X _abi blushed modestly. “Well, I mean the goalkeeper was completely out of position—”_  
  
_“It was 78 yards,” called Crouchie from a few seats away._  
  
_“Unbelievable,” Dan murmured. He was not one to throw around compliments, Xabi had noticed. He took a sip of his drink to hide his still-red cheeks. “If I could've scored a goal like that...”_  
  
_Suddenly, several more of their drunken and happy teammates appeared to bombard Xabi with yet more praise for his_ two _goals that day, especially the incredible record-breaking one._  
  
_“Brilliant,” Riise slurred._  
  
_“Incredible,” Carra agreed. Xabi tried not to smile as the lot of them continued to attack him. It took a while, but eventually they cleared off, bellowing the Kop's song for Xabi at full volume._  
  
_Xabi muttered to Dan after they left, “I wish you_ had _scored. They won't leave me alone.”_  
  
" _All right,” Dan sighed as if it was terribly bothersome, “I'll tell the referees to count them as my goals.”_  
  
" _Phew. Thanks.”_  
  
_“I dunno though, it might not work if I wasn't on the pitch at all,” Dan mused after a while._  
  
_“Yeah, you're right. What if I just make a public announcement that the goals were for you?”_  
  
_Dan smiled, showing beautifully straight white teeth. Xabi stared. He definitely didn't do that very often. Not often enough. Dan noticed the older man staring and cocked his head curiously._  
  
_“Something wrong?” he asked, genuinely curious._  
  
" _No, not at all,” Xabi stammered._  
  
_Dan hesitated, and finally he laughed. “Let's get you another drink. You sound much too coherent for a fucking matchwinner!”_  
  
__  
  
They ended up in Xabi's bed that night. Champagne was spilled over duvets and banging headboards awakened neighbors. They were all excited giggles and muffed moans and when they woke up together, they looked at each other with a hint of surprise but an odd lack of embarrassment. It was the first of many for them.  
  
_When they won the FA Cup that year...after they lost the final in Athens...the night after Xabi's wedding...after long lonely bouts of international duty... The night before Xabi left._  
  
_Dan knew about Xabi's plans before almost anyone else did. Xabi told him early on because that was the kind of person he was. He asked Dan not to tell anyone and the younger man listened because that was the kind of person he was. Turned out it did nothing to stop his heart breaking._  
  
_“I've got to,” Xabi told him, eyes begging. “I've been in England for five years.” (a time period Dan could not even imagine) “I've always wanted to play for Real. It's my dream.” Dan knew he was asking him, not telling. If Dan asked Xabi to stay, he would._  
  
_But Xabi knew Dan would never ask._  
  
_The Dane shook his head, looked away. “You've got to.”_  
  
_Xabi smiled sadly. "I miss you,” he whispered and gave Dan a peck on the cheek. Their last kiss? Probably. Not as mutual as Dan would have liked._  
  
  
  
T _here's a time when Dan hates Xabi. Won't talk about him, won't watch Spain games, will cover his ears when Pepe or Fernando or Stevie brings him up. Won't look at Aquilani. Won't answer his calls or his texts. Of course, the shithole that is their first season after Xabi's departure doesn't help anything. Neither do his injuries._  
  
_On the other hand, Xabi watches Premier League matches whenever he can – to get a glimpse of his old team, as he tells his Real teammates (not quite a lie). He watches Liverpool underperform and Arsenal get lucky. He watches Dan on the pitch as well as in the stands, depending on the month. His heart aches when he sees Stevie miss the goal by inches, or Carra mistime a tackle. He hates watching Dan grimace because he knows he's made him suffer much, much worse._  
  
_He tends to text him after games, whether it's to cheer up or congratulate. He's given up expecting a response. Oddly enough, in February, when the title hopes have just started to slip away from them, when the potential for glory has begun to fade, he gets a text back after a narrow win. It's filled with the stinging sarcasm he's only ever known Dan to master._ Thanks, Xabi! Couldn't have done it without you! _, and he accepts it because he knows he deserves it. From then on, his texts are more polite, more curt even. He gets the same types of responses, never with as much emotion as the first one ...which makes it awkward the first time they run into each other._  
  
_It's completely intentional on Xabi's part. He's visiting and shows up at Melwood for a reason Dan can't fathom. He's just meeting Glen for the first time when Dan rounds the corner and stops in shock. Xabi turns and meets his eyes with a hesitant smile. Dan steels himself, forgetting to attempt a smile back. Stevie, Glen, and everyone else around stare, but Dan turns on his heel and leaves. Xabi quickly apologizes and follows Dan (“I don't know what the matter is...”)._  
  
_He jogs in the direction where he saw Dan disappear, toward the locker room. Luckily, he catches the Dane just before he's opened the door. “Dan, wait! Please!” He leans against the door so Dan can't go in._  
  
_“What?” he says exasperatedly. “What do you want, Xabi?”_  
  
_“I...I wanted to see you,” Xabi begins uncertainly. “I missed you.” Dan tries to open the door again, but Xabi holds fast. “I wanted to apologize for –” he can't say it – “everything.”_  
  
_“_ _Everything?”_  
  
" _For leaving. I'm so sorry.”_  
  
_Dan stares at him for a while. Then he jerks open the door, catching Xabi off guard, and goes into the locker room. Xabi sighs and after a brief moment of hesitation, walks off in defeat (the worst feeling in the world)._  
  
  
  
He had doubted Dan would ever forgive him. So the text he received was surprising, to say the least. It was almost like things were back to old times, like he had never left. They keep in contact – fleeting texts, mostly, nothing too real – until the finals. Xabi's too nervous to flirt but is absolutely compelled to respond.  
  
_I've got great seats for the semis_ , Dan promises. _Can't wait. I'll meet you by the locker room after the game. Wait around a bit?_ Like they were boyfriends or something. Xabi's more confused than anything else, but (like always) he'll take what Dan will give. And hope.  
  
After they beat Germany, no one really lingers in the locker room. They're all eager to get out and celebrate another glorious victory for _La Furia Roja_. Which is fine by Xabi. He waits outside the locker room like a nervous teenage girl before a date until he sees the rare smile of Daniel Agger greet him.  
  
Without a word, the taller man pulls Xabi inside and guides him towards the showers. Xabi's stomach drops because he knows how this will end but he can do nothing but follow.  
  
Dan turns on the hot water without glancing at Xabi and steps into the shower, fully clothed. Then he starts to take off his shirt as Xabi stares, transfixed. Dan finally fixes Xabi with an (almost) emotionless stare. “Help?” he asks, and Xabi rushes over to help him take off his shirt, trying to ignore the way Dan's cool wet skin feels. It's difficult because they're both getting wetter by the second, but when it's finally removed, Dan smiles at him -- he's forgotten how good it feels.  
  
Xabi is about to say something when suddenly Dan pushes him against the wall, eliciting a low groan from the older man. “What are you—” Xabi manages to get out before Dan whips his shirt over his head and discards it incredibly efficiently. He presses their lips together in a searing kiss and Xabi can feel the yearning and anger and pure desire that fuels every fiber of Dan's being. It's kind of scary. But he lets go, just wraps himself tighter around the younger man because he knows, deep down, he loves that Dan is as passionate as this.  
  
Dan moves down, sucking on Xabi's pulse point until the midfielder mewls. God, he's missed that sound. He can't help but chuckle, which vibrates against Xabi's neck and makes him squirm. Xabi's boxers and pants are rolled down halfway, keeping him against the wall and making it easy for Dan to wraps a large hand around his already-hard cock. Dan swears the way Xabi bucks against him is enough to make him regret those long silences over the winter.  
  
“How long has it been?” Dan mutters as his thumb gently slides over the head.  
  
"Too long,” Xabi gasps, throwing his head back.  
  
“I can see,” Dan taunts as he fondles Xabi's balls. “It's almost too easy.”  
  
“Please,” Xabi whines, not caring how shameless he sounds. He grinds against the wall to get some sort of friction, anything. "No games."  
  
“Patience,” Dan scolds. “You decided _when_ you want me... I decide _how_ I want you.” He sticks a finger in Xabi's mouth and watches the other man suck it like a dick, as if it's a promise, as if it's an apology. Dan laughs once again and rams the same digit inside Xabi unapologetically.  
  
Xabi rides it, whimpering and moaning until Dan decides he's prepared enough and turns Xabi around, much to his delight. His chest hits the slippery wall and Dan sticks his cock inside him, hot and oh-so-tight, just the way Xabi likes it (wants it needs it).  
  
“Fuck, Dan!”  
  
Dan smiles because it's rare that Xabi begs. He slows down his pace, thrusting tantalizingly slowly just because it sends Xabi over the edge. He grips his cock with the other hand and it just takes a few seconds before Xabi is coming all over the wall, all over Dan's hand, and falling limp in Dan's arms.  
  
Dan comes shortly after, hot and wet inside Xabi and the Basque has never loved it more.  
  
They collapse on the floor then, the shower still running. They're silent for a while, coming down from their highs as the come runs down their thighs.  
  
“Congratulations,” Dan says eventually. It's genuine.  
  
Xabi hesitates. “Thanks.” Then after a bit he adds, “I thought you hated me.”  
  
Dan shrugs and casts his glance to the floor. “I realized...I need you a thousand times more than I could ever hate you. I guess it took a while."  
  
Xabi grins because he knows the feeling. “I missed you so much, Dan. And I am sorry... for everything.”  
  
The Dane looks uncomfortable, tense. “No, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't have--"  
  
“You're allowed to get angry,” Xabi laughs and leans up to kiss him lightly on the mouth. “With me, you're allowed to be angry.”  
  
“I love you so much,” Dan admits and he can't help but feel a little vulnerable.  
  
"You too," Xabi smiles. They're silent then, basking in the afterglow of what they've just said.  
  
"You didn't really have a sign with my face on it, did you?"  
  
Dan looks shocked that he's being doubted. "Of course I did. Got it from a guy outside the stands. A lot cheaper than the Ramos and Torres ones. A discount."  
  
"Shut up," Xabi laughs, swatting him playfully.  
  
Dan speaks up then. “So, good?” He means the sex.  
  
Xabi's lazy smile is all the confirmation he needs.


End file.
